


Blind Faith

by engmaresh



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Loyalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10940787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/pseuds/engmaresh
Summary: Who’s the more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?–Obi-Wan Kenobi, A New HopeIn which Baze has his doubts, Chirrut has his faith, and they both set a precedent for arguing in the corridors of Rebel bases.





	Blind Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blind Faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551292) by [nra40](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nra40/pseuds/nra40). 



> Written for the Rogue Robin, hosted on [JediFest](http://jedifest.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This is Part 3 of Blind Faith.  
> Read Part 1 by nra40 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10551292).  
> Read Part 2 by aeremaee [here](http://jedifest.tumblr.com/post/159633150549/blind-faith-phase-two-callsign-025).

“What are we doing here?” Baze mutters in an undertone as they follow the Rebel captain and his team–more like a sorry bunch of fools–off the ship and into unknown territory. Being on the ship had been bad enough; small, cramped, having to deal with carrying nothing more than the weapons on his back and with Chirrut being an obstinate bantha. There’d been no talking his partner into leaving the group at the closest spaceport. No. Chirrut had found a _Cause_ , and he apparently was going to stick with it, even if it was so clearly going to lead to their deaths.

The Rebels are cautious, which is one thing they have going for them. Though the Rebel captain, Andor, had apparently vouched for them, precautions are still being taken, and Baze finds himself stripped of all his weapons save for the knife he tucked into the lining on his boot. And the vibroshiv strapped to the small of his back. The wire in his hair. The pocket blaster in his pocket. Experienced fools, but not that experienced, at least not with his kind of scum. Chirrut meanwhile has managed to hold on to his staff through sheer force personality, since security personnel had at first been set on giving him a medical walking stick so they could lock his staff up in the armory.

“I’m hungry,” Chirrut says, once he has received his pat down. Unlike Baze, he carries no concealed weapons, unless one counts his tongue. “Which way to the canteen?”

The Rebel security officers exchange looks. “Um, that way,” one says, pointing at the corridor leading off to the right.

“Thank you!” Chirrut replies cheerily and sets off towards the left.

As the officer trips over his tongue to correct Chirrut’s direction, Baze rolls his eyes and seizes his partner by the elbow, steering him right. Chirrut gives the officer a wave, and almost smacks that silly helmet off his head.

“You shouldn’t be fooling around like this,” Baze hisses once he’s sure they’re out of earshot.

“Harmless fun,” Chirrut says, waving a dismissive hand. “Those helmets are ugly and don’t seem to offer much protection.”

“Why are we here? This is not our fight.”

The humor leaves Chirrut’s face. Baze tenses, knowing he’s in for a lecture. He’d rather not hear it.

“No, you should,” says Chirrut, digging in his heels. They come to  stop in the middle of the corridor. A mouse droid tootles angrily and zips around their feet.

“We’ve been fighting this fight–”

“We’ve already fought it. Since we were children, Chirrut. What choice did we have in the matter back then?”

“This has always been our fight, Baze,” says Chirrut. “Maybe it’s time for us to help end it.” The trickster mask falls and he looks tired. The are lines around his eyes, some from stress; but those in the corner, those are from laughter. They fan out from his white cloudy eyes like rays from a sun. Many times Baze has been the cause of that laughter, even if most of the time he hadn’t intended to be.

He feels it in his gut: they won’t shine for much longer. Call it the Force, call it instinct, an assassin’s intuition for danger, a mercenary’s drive for self-preservation. He’s tired of the world going to blazes around them, and Chirrut and him always caught in it, but never quite in the middle.

He says, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Chirrut of course, has to jump right on that.

“The Force!”

“Common sense!”

Footsteps near. They step aside as a Rebel officer passes, the Rodian not giving either of them a second glance. Either the Rebels are incredibly trusting, their security is extremely lax, or they are for some reason used to finding couples arguing in their corridors.

“You forget,” Baze says once the footsteps have faded away. “These aren’t just soldiers. These are politicians too. Remember the Clone Wars, you fool. Good men fighting, dying, while politicians just talked about it. Talked and talked. Then they threw it all away anyway.”

“You don’t trust the good captain or Jyn Erso?”

“I’ve only known them less than a day!”

“You don’t trust the Force?”

Sometimes Baze really wants to shake him.

“Well, do you trust me?” Chirrut asks him.

Force–or something–help him, but he does. Baze nods.

“Then come with me.”

“We are going to die,” he says. The Force doesn’t speak to him any more, but he knows this in his old, tired bones.

“Yes,” says Chirrut, and takes his hands, kissing the back of one and then the other. Baze can feel the callouses on Chirrut’s fingers against his palms. He’d know these hands anywhere. They’ve hurt him, healed him, loved him for so many years. He knows them as well as Chirrut knows the cadence of his voice, the words behind every grunt and grumble, the meaning behind each tone and inflection. They’ve had all these years to learn. Is this what it has all lead to?

“Yes,” says Chirrut again, sensing his doubt. “We’re going to die. But I think we’ve spent enough time waiting.”

“You’ve been the one waiting,” Baze grumbles, shifting his grip so he’s the one holding Chirrut’s hands, palms up. He presses a kiss to each lined stretch of skin, and when he looks up, a wide smile is stretching across Chirrut’s face. His hands curl into fists, as though holding on to feel of Baze’s kiss.

“But you will always go with me,” he says.

Baze agrees: “I will always go with you.”

 

_fin_


End file.
